Fish Paste Sandwiches
by Gentleman Crow
Summary: Retired Wing Commander Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Air Force had no time or patience for strays and vagabonds, of the four-legged variety or otherwise.


**Author's Note:** And here we have again another entry in the 100 theme challenge! This is my entry for #23, cat, and it was a breeze and a pleasure to write! Since Himaruya already gave us his adorable Nekotalia drawings, inspiration for that particular theme was not at all hard to find X3 So enjoy another short fic from me, and please leave me a note at the end, I dearly love to hear from all of you!

-Crow

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><p><strong>Fish Paste Sandwiches<strong>

The first time he laid eyes on the godforsaken flea-bitten feline it was face down in the rubbish bin outside his townhouse, haunches in the air with its tail swaying smugly back and forth as it feasted ravenously upon a carelessly discarded chicken corpse. He had stared at the blatant spectacle, speechless, a full bag of reeking refuse in one hand and leaning heavily against his trusty cane with the other, hardly able to believe his eyes. Never before had he caught so much as vermin with the gall to pilfer his garbage, yet there the cat sat, crunching bone and tearing bags in search of more hidden treats at his expense.

The miserable wretch was obviously a stray. Its long fur looked to have once been a pure white before the filth of London's streets had slowly seeped into it, and even underneath the once full and glorious coat its thinned physique was painfully obvious. Hence why it seemed more than content to make a grand meal of his leftovers and cared very little that a human was nearby glaring hellfire at it. A glare that endured unceasing as it rummaged, rooted and had free reign until he regained his senses and gave the bin a sharp thwack with his cane, terrifying the poor creature into a yowling, panicked flight back into the alley from whence it came. Satisfied, he had tossed the bag atop the rest of the garbage with a smirk and turned to limp heavily back inside the sanctuary of his ground level flat.

Retired Wing Commander Arthur Kirkland of the Royal Air Force had no time or patience for strays and vagabonds, of the four-legged variety or otherwise.

He had survived the Second World War. He had terrorized enemy skies, shot down more German planes than anyone in his squadron, and led them with strength and courage in a long, bloody war where Britain had been counting on them to bring glory and hope to her people. He had battled tirelessly against the forces of evil right up until the fateful day he had been ambushed and shot down just beyond the Maginot Line, but not before taking three unlucky Messerschmitt with him. His faithful Hurricane had perished, though the memory of her lingered forever with him as the shrapnel still embedded in his leg, but Arthur had not. His mangled body had been pulled from the wreckage just in time, broken and bleeding, by a nearby French Battalion and hauled off to a crack field medic who had been almost his personal angel of mercy. Had he not been French, of course.

Nevertheless, the injury had spelled the end of his military career, and the end of the war. By the time he was released from the veterans' hospital the furor was dead, the Axis had surrendered and all of Europe was free to dance in the streets, scream to the heavens and celebrate their right to live once again. Those who had families to return to, lives, homes, children, careers and pastimes, anyway. Arthur Kirkland had nothing. All he had once his wings had been clipped and a cane placed in his hand was a hefty pension from the military, a single suitcase of clothes, and a dismal prayer that he could find someplace adequate to settle in the post war ruins of London.

His parents were long deceased, which Arthur was grateful for, as he was certain the mere threat of war would have done his flighty mother in and driven his father to walk out straight into the blitz to fire at the Luftwaffe with his trusty hunting rifle, screaming obscenities, until he was mowed down just to shut his mouth. His siblings had despised one another since conception and had scattered themselves across the British Isle as far as they possibly could from one another. Arthur truthfully had no idea if they were even alive or dead, nor did he much care. He had been alone since his college years and quite frankly he preferred it that way. He had never married, all his friends had died honorable deaths in combat, and all he wanted to do was live out the rest of his days quietly; alone, reading, doing his needlepoint and tending his garden. After a few short days of searching he found a suitable flat nearby the necessary shops, and naturally the local pub, and moved in with the full intention of never being harassed again, until the unexpected arrival of the devil cat from hell.

The second time Arthur saw the cat, it was assisting him in watering his roses in the small garden behind his home the only way it could, rump high in the air with its tail quivering, nose haughtily upturned and bright blue eyes narrowed smugly as it sprayed his prized blooms. Arthur stared, slack-jawed, while the filthy creature finished its business and began happily digging in his lovingly tended soil to bury its leavings. A split second later the hose was pinched to a vicious torrent and leveled coldly at the cat, and their second encounter ended much the same as the first. It hissed and spat and made an acrobatic escape over his wooden fence and Arthur grinned in victory, releasing the pressure on his hose and rinsing the foul smelling urine off of his precious flowers.

The old pilot was certain that would be the last he saw of the beast, but it proved him wrong a third time not a week later. Mysterious claw marks began to appear on the trunk of his whimsical little hawthorn tree, then his fence, and finally his front door. His begonias disappeared one by one, swatted and chewed off their delicate little stems, and the entire garden began to sag in defeat in its upturned, sullied beds. Unable to stand the senseless destruction of one of his few bastions of sanity, Arthur purchased one of every variety of pest trap and deterrent he could get his hands on and set a veritable maze of destruction around the miniature battlefield. Determined at last to capture the feline terror and either dispatch it or at the very least turn it over to a local pound where they could do the dirty work, Arthur lay in wait.

His once beautiful fairytale garden became a warzone as ravaged and as violent as the real battlefields he had once fought upon. The cat returned time and time again and managed to spring every trap artfully in the dead of night, leaving a pathetic ruin of bent wire, empty cages and snapped metal jaws clenching voraciously to nothing. In the dead of night he would hear one discharge and sit bolt upright in bed, searching for his gun on wartime reflex, only to hear the amorous caterwauling of the beast prowling his fence, trumpeting his victory. Arthur was reduced to hurling things out the window in a sleepy, furious haze, only to discover his precious Shakespeare, Chaucer, Wordsworth, and Wilde all strewn across the dewy lawn the following morning. By the time he finished hanging all the tomes with care over his laundry line to dry and apologizing to them, the cat would return again as if to admire its handiwork. Perched high up in the branches of his hawthorn, it sat, preening and purring until Arthur shook it loose with his broom.

The cat began to appear in his garden or his garbage daily. For a solid month not a single afternoon or evening would pass without a glimpse of dirty white fur and mischievous blue eyes ending in a fruitless altercation. Their enmity and strange interspecies rivalry became a part of the usual routine, an epic struggle between the forces of good and evil, a matter of morals and principle, or so Arthur testily informed his confused, slightly disturbed neighbors. He could just as well set his pocket watch to the appearances of the cat who seemed to have a vendetta against him as well, and came to anticipate their skirmishes with no small measure of glee.

So when the day came that the scruffy feline showed neither hide nor hair, Arthur felt as if the universe itself had shifted. He made breakfast unmolested, tended his garden in the afternoon and made more headway on repairs than he had in week. Tea, and then suppertime came and went in complete peace, leaving the veteran puzzled and perturbed. He ventured out and simply stood outside in his garden at dusk, leaning on his cane with one hand, a cup of tea in the other, watching the fence or the alleyways where the beast usually appeared. Darkness fell, the damp chill of the night settled into his bones and made his crippled leg ache, but Arthur remained with military stubbornness and discipline, certain it was all a ploy.

The cat obviously had some nefarious plot brewing. For all he knew, it was already inside his house raiding the icebox, pissing in his bed, and wreaking havoc while he waited like a moron out in the cold. But no sounds of destruction came from inside his flat, no yowling on the fence, no grating scritch of claws through brittle wood or the dying squelching crunches of delicate foliage as it was maliciously masticated. The cat was nowhere to be found.

Arthur drew himself up stiffly, knowing he should feel victorious. At last, it seemed he had won the war and driven his adversary screaming to the hills, but it felt so disastrously anticlimactic he took very little pleasure in it. The end of the war was not supposed to be a quiet, pathetic acceptance of defeat. The combatants were supposed to have their final confrontation, a knockdown drag out bloody, fiery brawl from which only one would emerge. Arch nemeses were not supposed to merely fade into the shadows never to be heard from again, and especially not when they had been the one to bring the declaration of war in the first place. Yet the cat did not appear. The crickets began to sing, the stars glittered overhead as the moon traversed her stately path across the heavens, and Arthur finally heaved a sigh of resignation.

"Serves you right, you ruddy mongrel," he muttered bitterly as he turned and limped back inside.

A warm fire in the fireplace, his trusty armchair, a fresh cup of tea and his favorite Sherlock Holmes did little to occupy his mind, but he persisted in reading the same page without really reading it until sleep overtook him. He fully expected to be awoken with the usual crashes, meowing, and chaos from his yard, but the morning was so peaceful he slept on, book over his chest and cane propped against his chair at the ready, until the clock on his mantle chimed nine in the morning. Emerald green eyes fluttered open at the musical sound, searched the parlor in confusion, and blinked rapidly as he realized his morning had been utterly unspoiled. Arthur snatched his cane with a gasp and hurled his aching body out of his chair, hobbled to the door, and threw it open.

Just as the night before, his garden lay quiet and undisturbed with no sign that the cat had even flounced through in passing.

Arthur stared for what seemed like an eternity, the cool morning breeze tossing his unkempt hair and ignoring the chipper, if timid, greetings of his neighbors as they went about their business. Crushing disappointment coiled bitterly in his chest and he clenched a fist over his heart, baffled as to why he suddenly felt so sad. He merely craved a tiny sense of his old glory, he reasoned. He wanted to best his new and homely foe as smartly as he had vanquished the Axis in the war and defend his home as he had defended all of Britain. That was all. He certainly was not hoping to see the ratty little feline that still seemed to carry itself with confidence, mischief, and grace once more. In fact, he was glad to be rid of it for good.

His property was a shambles and with the cat out of his business he could go about restoring it to its biblical splendor once more. A day of potting and pruning would be just the thing to put him back into sorts and take his mind off the strange incident of the stray cat he had wanted to be free from anyway. So Arthur peeled himself away from the porch with one last glance over his shoulder and went back inside to clean himself up, change his clothes and go out for the day.

After a light lunch he made his way out on foot to the garden shop a few blocks away, wanting to stretch his leg and get some fresh air before getting to work. He purchased a new bag of potting soil along with a few new flowers to replace the ones that had been destroyed beyond repair and some new planks for his fence, then paid the proprietor to have them delivered to his townhouse. He hated having to have any large orders delivered, but it had become a necessary humiliation in the wake of his injuries so he made the poor delivery poor pay his penance with a few nasty words and shuffled his way out the door back home.

As Arthur walked, listening to the familiar limp of his gait and the neat click of his cane against the paving stones, against his better judgment he found himself wondering about the cat once more. At first he thought it merely battle won, but the more he thought about the creature the more he realized it was almost as stubborn as he was and the thought of it merely running up the white flag was profoundly preposterous. Something had to have happened. Either a kindly family had picked it up, or the pound or, dreadful as the thought was, it could have run afoul of an unchained dog or a speeding car.

Arthur paused on the street, stomach lurching. He had seen his comrades slaughtered like animals on the field of battle. The fog of war had swallowed him whole and shown him the darkest underbelly of humanity and the cruelty they were all capable of. He had held his own ruined leg together in the burning wreckage of his plane, convinced he was breathing his last, and yet the thought of that insidious, proud, and devious beast lying in a crumpled heap somewhere, alone and forgotten, brought his world to a halt. The only thing that started it again was a very familiar yowl and a chorus of vicious cackles.

Disbelieving his very senses, Arthur's head snapped up and he listened intently; almost certain he had imagined it. Only a moment later a second panicked wail followed the first from an alley nearby and he moved as quickly as his battered body would allow down behind a row of shops toward the sound of the commotion. Several young voices rose up around the feline screams for help, and behind the towering dumpsters filled with boxes and rotten food from the restaurant they served the pilot finally thundered onto the scene.

The cat, his cat, was lying on the ground, its legs lashed together with twine like a hog. Three young boys circled it like vultures, a string of firecrackers in one of their grubby hands while one of the others held it down, and the last flicked a lighter on and off eagerly. The little deviant holding the firecrackers bent down and began tying them to the length of the cat's fluffy tail while the others laughed again, cajoling him to do it faster and gleefully awaiting just how hilarious their little scheme would be. Arthur's ears rang with indescribable fury. His vision flushed with red and his hand shook on the handle of his cane as his vesuvian anger erupted unmitigated.

"Just what in the hell do you think you misbegotten miscreants are DOING!" he roared.

The boys turned in unison, frozen in mid torment, their eyes wide and shocked to have an accidental witness to their crime. They began to get up, excuses already on their lips, but not seeing the older man's weapon already raised.

"Oh piss off old man, it's just a stray," one began, though quickly hushed by his compatriots.

"We ain't doing nothing improper, mister, honest!" another covered up quickly.

Arthur heard not a word. His cane lashed out with a military trained swiftness and fury none of the youths had ever seen before and struck each one smartly across the behind. The indignant screeches as all three hit the ground hard brought a grin to Arthur's lips and a swell of smug satisfaction to his chest. The cat mewled as it struggled to free itself during the fray, and as each of its tormentors whined and rose from the ground Arthur gave them each one more firm blow across the back to herd them out of the alley and back onto the lane.

"Get on, you bloody brats! Before I give you all a caning that'll MORE than make up for all the ones your fathers have neglected your entire pathetic little lives!" he snarled with all the primal rage of an unhinged monster.

The young scoundrels got up, blinking back tears and rubbing their backsides as they frantically fled the terrifying madman with a cane. Arthur turned back to the hapless cat after he watched them go in a messy, stumbling, sniffling mess, still seething and breathless, and instantly softened at the pitiful sight if it bound and tortured and lashed to the dumpster. He limped quickly to its side and knelt down on his good knee, resting his cane across his lap and reaching into his pocket for the knife he always kept.

"Easy, easy there. That's a good lass. I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed as he flipped open the blade slowly.

The cat scrambled frantically against its bonds, but Arthur laid a calm, firm hand on its chest. First he made sure to remove the firecrackers and hurl them with disgust into the dumpster. Next he cut the twine around its neck and before it could thrash away from him he deftly maneuvered the blade around the flailing paws and severed the ties there. He smiled faintly as the cat righted itself, but on sheer instinct and panic it laid back its ears, hissed furiously and swiped its claws across its rescuer's cheek. White-hot pain sent Arthur reeling with a cry of pain and shock, and, seeing its opportunity for escape at last, the cat rocketed past. It nicked the pilot straight in the hip in its flight, upsetting his balance and sending him crashing down straight onto his crippled leg. Old wounds exploded with the memory of them and Arthur collapsed to his side with a scream of ire.

The cat stopped midway down the alley at the guttural cry and turned back to look. Its tail flicked, sky blue eyes flashing, almost in remorse, almost as if it knew what it had done, but one look at Arthur's pinched face, bared teeth and the colorful string of oaths from his lips sent it speeding off down the alley again where it vanished into the reeking jungle of dumpsters once more. Arthur lay on the filthy ground until the pain had subsided and only then did he carefully draw himself up, eyes dark, forehead beaded with sweat. He knew the cat was gone, but his emerald green eyes gazed into the empty space where it had gone, chest aching. That was the last he would ever see of the creature, he already knew.

Never again would it dare to come engage him in the noble art of war. They had seen each other at the raw and weakest and as a proud warrior himself, Arthur knew all too well that was one of the few things that could bring even the most savage of wars to an end. Once both sides had been worn raw, both exhausted, both pushed to the very limits of their souls, only then did surrenders, treaties, and truces come to pass. The two of them had become a strange sort of equal and now there would be no reason for the cat to return. With a heavy heart, Arthur picked up his cane and shakily rose to his feet to slowly wend his way home.

Upon arriving he found his gardening supplies already waiting for him, but he had no will to begin his work any longer. He brought them just inside the gate to keep them safe, but nothing more, and trudged inside to change his clothes, make dinner, and find some way to occupy himself for the evening. Though his life had been consumed with his rivalry with the cat for so long, now that he had no traps to set, no schemes to plan and no destruction to clean up, the silence and stillness from his life just after his discharge from the air force began to seep into his bones. He recalled the crushing drudgery that had been his daily routine in post war London with no job to go to every day, no family, and no friends. His days were spent in quiet monotony with his books, his sketches or poems, his garden, and quite frequently the many local pubs within walking distance of his home. There had been nothing on the horizon for him, no destination, nothing to expect, no future but more empty, meaningless days of the same.

It had been hell coming back from the strange world that was war back to the simple normal life he had left behind, but at least with the arrival of the cat there had been something to look forward to.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, as Arthur shuffled out to his porch with a simple fish paste sandwich and a bottle of scotch for dinner, he had looked forward to the daily bouts with the cat. It had become a sort of strange companion for him. Someone as alone and as feisty as he was, and someone who wouldn't nag him to find some desk job to busy himself, or to stop drinking, or to chin up and face the new world with a smile. The cat expected nothing out of him but to be his nasty, temperamental self and for that, Arthur felt as if he had lost the only friend he had left in the world. He sat down on the porch with his sandwich and his scotch and drank a swig to yet another era of life gone by in the cruel march of time.

So lost in his miserable thoughts and the haze of alcohol as he ate and drank, Arthur almost failed to notice the quiet scuffling just outside his gate. He looked up just in time to see the entire fence rattle, a flash of white, and keen blue eyes leveled straight at him as the cat once again appeared as if by magic upon his property again. Arthur's breath caught in his chest, afraid to move and almost afraid to breathe lest he send the stray scampering for its life again. The cat drew itself up regally, tail coiled around its feet, and regarded the human with aloof curiosity. For a poignant eternity the two sat as equals, blue and green irises inextricably locked and peering into the depths of two kindred spirits. Finally, it was Arthur who moved, smiling as he broke off a corner of his fish paste sandwich and held it out toward the cat invitingly.

"Here. You must be starved, yeah?" he offered.

The cat's nostrils flared, its ears pricked up and its tail quivered. The scent of fish reached its nose on the breeze and it took a tentative step toward the human then gracefully descended the fence into the yard. It trotted a few steps up the walk toward the porch where Arthur was sitting, paused, just to check again that his intentions were not malicious, and crept cautiously the rest of the way. Arthur tossed the bit of sandwich in his hand so the timid creature need not get too close, and much to his delight the cat instantly snapped the treat up and gobbled it down.

"Thought you might like that," he chuckled softly, "Here, have the rest. Not really what I wanted for supper, anyhow."

The blonde broke off another piece and held it out. More willing to trust him the second time, the cat scurried up to his side and gingerly took the bit of sandwich into its mouth. It dropped it onto the porch before it leaned down to eat it, but it happily devoured the second offering as Arthur opened the remainder and set it down with the sides smeared with fish paste facing up. The cat licked its chops appreciatively and sat down on its haunches to enjoy the rest of the meal while he watched with a fond half smile.

Arthur watched it eat and relax into a comfortable ease next to him, and before he even knew what he was doing his hand was outstretched toward it. His fingers trembled and hesitated just slightly, as if afraid touching it would send it running again, or even cause it to vanish; only a figment of his imagination after all. But the tips of his tentative digits gently alighted on the silky top of the cat's head and the cat kept on eating as if nothing had happened. Arthur chanced a gentle stroke down the length of its back, and to his surprise it actually raised its haunches in pleasure into his hand. The feline polished off the fish paste in complete comfort and ease while Arthur petted it and thanked him with a gentle butt of its head against his side.

"There's a good girl," he chuckled, though as the cat circled around for another rub against him he made sure to correct him with a full view of his masculine accoutrements, "Oh, sorry. Boy."

Arthur smirked and continued to scratch the cat that had looked distinctly feminine since the beginning as he circled and mewled and padded into his lap. His fingers brushed something hard around his neck and he frowned, concerned the boys had lashed something else around his new friend, but as he pushed back the long white fur he finally saw a faded red collar hidden deep in the fluffy depths he had never noticed before. It was complete with a tiny heart shaped tag dangling from the end and as Arthur undid the clasp and gently worked the accessory out of the tangles of matted white fur he saw it was engraved with a name.

"Francis? That's what you're called, is it?" he read, glancing down at the creature.

Francis looked up, bright blue eyes lively with recognition, and mewed in response. Arthur smiled and stroked back his ears.

"Not really a proper name for a cat. But I suppose it'll have to do. Francis," he repeated amusedly, scratching under his chin.

Francis purred and closed his eyes as he leaned into his fingers.

"Now why don't you come inside? Hmm?" Arthur crooned, "You'll catch your death out here tonight. And you look as if you haven't had a scrap of food or a good night's sleep in weeks! I won't hear any protest!"

A laugh bubbled cheerily from his throat as he spoke to the cat as if it were a long lost friend, surprising even himself, and Arthur picked up his cane to push himself up off the porch. He popped open the front door and Francis trotted gratefully inside with a sweet trill like he had always lived there. Arthur followed him, but he left behind the discarded collar on the porch, completely forgotten and without even checking for an address. The door shut with a neat click and it remained as Arthur limped to the kitchen to give Francis the remainder of his jar of fish paste in his own dish, a saucer of warm milk, and then make a little bit of toast and Marmite for himself. Man and feline ate side by side, former mortal enemies made into comrades, enjoying one another's company in a cordial silence that replaced the usual lonely eternity punctuated only by the ticking of the clock.

Full and content after supper, Arthur got out a few spare blankets from the linen cupboard and laid them in front of the fireplace for Francis who climbed atop and burrowed down into them without reservation. A few slow, calming strokes from his savior and a softly hummed old English folk song had him fast asleep by the crackling embers with a deep peace Arthur found himself envying. He too, had felt like a stray, in the most poetic figurative of senses. Since he had returned from the war there had been no one and nowhere he belonged with or to. Now there was Francis. Now he had someone to count on him, someone who needed him to protect him and look out for him as he too, had no one else left in the entire world. Now neither of them had to be alone, and when the first rays of dawn filtered through Arthur's bedroom window, he awoke to find Francis curled into a ball against his side.

Arthur spent the morning cuddling his new purring ball of fluff and smiling radiantly until Francis announced he was hungry, hopped off the bed and padded to the kitchen. The human he had claimed followed as soon as he could get himself out of bed, grab his cane, and slide his feet into his slippers. Plenty of eggs and bread remained for Arthur to cook something for himself, but searching high and low turned up nothing suitable for Francis to partake of. He would have to settle for milk again for the time being, Arthur decided, and he would simply go out later and purchase some proper cat food. After all, if Francis was going to call his home his own, he would need more than just some spare scraps of food and extra blankets to make him comfortable.

Or so he assumed as he shuffled to the entry to get his guest his breakfast and pick up the paper.

As he opened the front door to bring in the milk that had been delivered that morning, the tattered red collar that had been around Francis' neck was still laying on the porch. Arthur stared at it as if it were a death threat, or some sort of black omen. Only then did he realize he had only bothered to check the collar for a name, but the fact that Francis had been wearing one at all meant he belonged to someone else. There was probably an address engraved on the back of the adorable little heart charm that had given him his friend's name. Francis probably had worried owners, a quaint and cozy home, a life with catnip mice, three square meals a day, and a fur lined bed to sleep in every night. Though if he had owners they certainly didn't care enough to come looking for him, Arthur reasoned as he drew himself up indignantly, and if they even wanted him back he would be of poor manners to return him looking as pitiful as he did. His fur was an awful mess and he was still half starved. It would be better to keep him a few days, nurse him back to health and beauty and then return him.

Arthur's mind was made up as he brought in the milk bottle and thought no more of it, leaving the collar still laying on his porch where he found it. He served Francis another saucer of milk, botched some scrambled eggs for himself, and then promptly struck out into town at a brisker pace than anyone had seen him strut since he had prowled their streets. He picked up some groceries for himself, surprising the grocer who was accustomed to seeing bushy brows furrowed and teeth bared at him, and then stopped in at the pet shop to get everything he needed for Francis. Though the trip took much longer than he expected, being clueless and at the mercy of the overly chipper Spaniard with a turtle perched atop his head assisting him. In the end, he ended up with a hefty sack of cat food, a brush, dishes, and even a few catnip mice, all of which he strung in a bag cheerily over his arm and walked eagerly, cane tapping the pavement with an upbeat musical tone, back home.

And again, Francis became a part of Arthur's daily life. Every morning began with petting and snuggling, then continued with breakfast in the parlor and a round of chasing catnip mice around the townhouse. Afterwards they would take a short walk, return to work on the garden, Francis chasing butterflies and lounging in the sun for his contribution, and then the evening would be spent quietly together in Arthur's favorite arm chair in front of the fire; cat in his lap and listening to the evening programs on the wireless. The formerly miserable creature filled back out almost miraculously, and with a few hazardous attempts at bathing and regular brushing his long white coat shone with health and vigor again. Yet even as Francis recovered well beyond acceptable to return to his family, the collar never moved from the spot where it had been discarded on the porch.

Not until one rainy day when Francis and Arthur were hurrying back from their morning walk being spoiled by the weather and caught without an umbrella, Francis making sure to keep pace with his disadvantaged owner, did he even remember it was there. In his hurry to get to the door and inside where it was warm and dry, he stepped straight on it, metal grating against the stone of his porch and old leather buckling sadly. Startled, Arthur lifted his foot and was stunned to see the identifying collar still there where it had been, smug, complacent, all too eager to remind him once again that anything that even hinted alluringly to make him happy always had to come to a tragic end. He stared at it, crestfallen, until Francis' miserable meowing brought him back to reality and he was forced to open the door. His soaked furry companion skittered gratefully inside while he remained and finally picked up the accursed red collar.

On the back of the heart shaped tag, written in neat, clearly legible text and glinting mockingly at him, was an address none too far away from his own residence. What he had feared all along was true. Infallibly, ineffably, devastatingly true. Francis was not alone. Francis had a family waiting for him. He had a whole life he had been lost from and a piece of a warm and happy life that had been missing for ages. He had a different place by the fire, a different lap to warm and a different bed to sleep in every night. They did not belong in the same world anymore and somewhere in his stony heart, Arthur had known it but never dared to admit it. He had blinded himself to the truth so fiercely he had walked past the damned thing every day and still forgotten that tiny blood red reminder that there was a wound, a scar, a disfiguring mark left on his joyful fantasy. Even his cane could no longer support his body as the crushing despair bore down upon him, and he sank down to his good knee with the collar clutched fiercely in his hand and his emerald eyes wrenched shut.

Something silky butted against his hand and rubbed against his thigh, and Arthur looked up with a gasp straight into a pair of concerned, beautiful sky blue eyes and an elegant face. Francis mewled softly and put his paws into his lap, tucking his head under his chin. Arthur wrapped his arms around him gently and fought back tears as he forced a smile and a few strokes through the plush white fur.

"I'm fine, Francis," he assured the cat, "Just the old damned leg again. That's all. Acts up when it rains, you see. I'll be right again in a tick."

He waited a moment more, then gently nudged the animal toward the house and forced himself back up with the aide of his cane. Francis trotted back inside, but glanced over his shoulder to make sure his Arthur was following the second time and mewed in satisfaction as the human shuffled in after him. He headed to the kitchen for tea and milk, as per their usual routine, and Arthur obliged. He made sure the rest of the day was as pleasant and normal as possible, for both their sakes, though his eyes burned and his throat tightened every time Francis chased his mice, rubbed against his leg, or demanded to get into his lap for attention. He was glad at least one of them would still be happy, and for the brief, wonderful time Francis had been in his life he deserved one last day of the smile he had returned to the old pilot's face.

That night, however, when all was done and Francis pranced into his bedroom with prey of a catnip mouse in his mouth, hopped up onto the bed, and dropped it lovingly on his chest as a gift of love, Arthur failed to keep the tears at bay. They rolled down his temples as he settled into bed for the final time with the maddening beast that had charmed his heart away and would return to the embrace of love and family once more to forget the bitter old man who cared for him completely. He clutched the mouse close to his chest in one hand while the other held Francis preciously and cried until he could no longer stand to be awake. His sleep was dark and troubled, fleeting, until the gray morning light broke through his window and brought more rain with it.

Arthur lingered in bed until Francis rose and made his way to the kitchen as they always did, and he followed suit. Just as he did every morning he made them both breakfast, sat at the table and read the paper, but just a little more slowly than usual. He let the kettle whistle on a few more notes of its monotonous song, let the earl grey steep a little darker, let it cool a little longer, and cleaned all the dishes much more thoroughly than needed. The skies cleared overhead as they waited for the duo to set foot out on their usual walk, gray replaced with a deep azure adorned with thick white clouds, and Arthur knew he could stall no longer. He donned his coat and his favorite fedora, took up his cane and led a restless Francis to the door with a brave smile.

"Come along then, Francis. About time you went home," he murmured as they both struck out down the walk and into the street.

Arthur already knew the avenue that was engraved on Francis' collar and it was a simple route to navigate, but he took several side streets, circled around blocks, and dawdled as much as he dared to arrive. It wasn't as if anyone was expecting him to call, and Francis seemed perfectly content to prowl the street beside him, occasionally trotting off to follow an elusive bird or pounce on a dead leaf with a satisfying crunch. Eventually, nevertheless, he would have to see his mission to return Francis home through like the soldier he was, and his leg would not hold out on him forever, so he made the turns toward the proper street and headed slowly down it at last. All the while his head was filled with agonizingly beautiful visions of Francis' family as he limped heavily, leg seeming to ache more acutely that day of all days. He pictured a perfect little house with a white fence covered in ivy, the smell of fresh baking wafting from the open windows while the children played in the front yard, missing their feline playmate. Everyone would be overjoyed to see him again and they would scoop him up into their arms, kiss him and hug him and turn to go inside, offering Arthur nothing more than a heartfelt thanks as they spirited Francis away forever.

So sweet was the dream, Arthur began to doubt if he could even muster the strength make it all the way to the number printed on the tag. Still, he counted for Francis. He watched as the number grew higher in succession on each little townhouse clustered together, every one bringing them closer, and slowed his pace as he approached the one that would belong to his little friend. Three more duplexes, then two, then just past an unkempt planter and to the left he would have to say his final goodbye. He sucked in a deep breath to prepare himself, steeled his will and tightened his grip on the handle of his cane and pressed on past the messy hedgerows to face sorrow head on.

Only once he turned to approach the house, there was nothing there.

Nothing but an entire block of blackened rubble, tattered old construction tape, condemned signs, and the demolished remnants of so many lives ruthlessly snuffed out scattered across the ashen wasteland remained. Arthur immediately understood. The reign of terror the Luftwaffe had choked London with had devastated his motherland in spirit and body at once. England still bore the scars and she would for all eternity, and in many places such as the somber spot in which he stood, the wounds were still open and fresh where reconstruction had yet to begin. It would be some time before London would even begin to recover from the Blitz and in the meantime those left behind could do nothing but take their hats off, as Arthur did, and press them over their hearts in respect and mourning.

Silence settled over him as he gazed into the ruins of the happy life he had been imagining and Francis padded up soundlessly beside him. He sat, coiled his tail around his legs, and gazed out into the wreckage of his former home beside the human with reverence. Though being a practical cat, Francis knew his master would be weary after such a long morning walk and that the begonias were not going to prune themselves and decided to break the reverie with a bright meow. Arthur started and looked down into those heavenly blue eyes that reflected no sadness, no regret or sorrow, only pure devotion and vivaciousness.

"Oh… Oh, I see," Arthur whispered hoarsely, reaching down to scratch the stately cat by his feet with a sad, crooked smile, "So you're all alone, too."

Francis trilled and threw his body against Arthur's leg affectionately, tail swaying and looking expectantly up at him. On effortless instinct, he padded back in the direction they had come with the self-assured confidence his new human would follow. Arthur lingered only a moment, offering a silent prayer to those who had lost their lives on that block, then took up his cane and followed along the path back home. It was certainly not the ending to the tale he had pictured, but perhaps after everything, it was the happiest one. Perhaps fate had brought him Francis not to remind him again how cruel mortal life was as he had thought, but finally to bring him a ray of light into the twilight of his tragic world. He was instead a gentle reminder that even out of the darkest of tragedy something beautiful could bloom, that not everything had been purged in fire and forever altered. They both had lost everything, but then both had found one another. They had their life of gardens, tea, and fish paste sandwiches and Arthur reckoned that was pretty damn good.

"I suppose we can continue to be alone together, then," he said warmly to Francis as he caught him up, "Shall we go home, then?"

Francis had known the way home long ago, but he still meowed in agreement and bounded round a corner and down the street back toward the townhouse he had made his own with his radiantly smiling, cane-wielding human not far behind. When they arrived there would still be claw marks in the hawthorn tree and the fence. The occasional begonia would still meet its death by playful claws. There would be tea in the afternoon and inadvertently silly melodramas on the wireless, or perhaps, even, he would finally purchase a television set for the two of them to watch in his favorite armchair front of the fire. But most importantly, Arthur and Francis would be alone together, compatriots in silence and kindred spirits, and that was all either of them ever wanted.


End file.
